


Alert.

by 221Bbakerqueer



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Autistic Sherlock, Confused Sherlock, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Fluff, Everybody knows, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Sherlock, John is a Bit Not Good, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mrs Hudson knows, Sad Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock is a bit of an idiot, Sherlock is in Love, aspie!sherlock, but i forgive him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-09-27 16:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10033232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Bbakerqueer/pseuds/221Bbakerqueer
Summary: That's what he noticed. The way his brain seems to fill up with fog and bags under blue eyes and deep blue deep blue deep deep blueStop, again. Focus, he needs to focus.OR the long path Sherlock has to walk to understand why his brain keeps getting foggy and why he hates the fact that John's date shoes have been sitting unused on the floor for months.





	1. Milk.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This is the first chapter of idontknowhowmany that will see Sherlock coming to terms with his feelings -feelings?!- for John. We all know Sherlock is not a marble stone character but i honestly hated how Moftiss sacrificed other characters to humanise Sherlock. So i thought, why not try to do it my way?   
> Here i tried to write about an emotional constipated Sherlock who keeps his heart in denial, trying too hard to rationalise everything.   
> Let me know if you enjoyed it!  
> Love,   
>  Evander.

 

He can't pinpoint _when_ it happened. He can't see the exact moment when it started. But then he started noticing, small little things that got his mind back to him over and over and over and John, John, John John _JohnJohnJohn_ and

 

stop.

 

That's what he noticed. The way his brain seems to fill up with fog and bags under blue eyes and deep blue deep blue _deep deep blue_

 

 _Stop, again_. Focus, he needs to focus.

 

There's a lifeless body on the concrete right in front of his eyes -blue deep blue blue blue blue- and his brain just can't focus. Man in his forties, sleep deprived, marriage, a sad one if you asked his ring finger. Nails bitten but only on one of his hand, nervous habit and a job that kept his working hand -left, just like john- John

 

John

 

John

 

FOCUS SHERLOCK

fold in trousers just at knee level, consumed fabric on the backside, a desk job? A desk job. Left hand looks callous in what resemble the space a computer mouse would fit. _Who cares? Is this even relevant?_ So desk job with a lot of computer work is it. Office? Office. John.

Christ.

 

«What?» Lestrade is looking at him with that confused expression of his.

 

Did he talk out loud? He did. «Christ, as in 'Jesus Christ this is so easy even you could have got it if you tried hard enough, Graham'.»

 

«It's Greg.»

 

«Whatever. Arrest the neighbor.» Do they have milk at he flat? Did John need it? He would grab some at the Tesco when he'd go back home.

 

«Why the hell the neighbor, Sherlock? Would you try explain? I have to report facts you know, it's supposed to be my-»

 

«Job, yes i know how poorly you do it. I'll try and explain, please take notes. I'm in hurry.» He never explained something faster than that.

 

Finds out John is out tonight. Well since this morning, there are no traces that suggest he's came back home and then gone out again.

 

_Where are you? SH_

 

No date shoes, best shirts and jumpers still in the closet. Not that John knows which shirts fit him better or which jumper brings his eyes out the most. NOT THAT SHERLOCK DOES, anyway. Buzzing in his pocket. Phone. Message. _Johnjohnjohnjohn._

 

_Out for dinner._

_Leftovers in the fridge, don't eat the thumbs._

_Don't wait up._

 

Why would he wait up? He never does. Does he? Sure, it happened that Sherlock stayed up late composing silently or going through the mailbox looking for something interesting and that John returned home just before Sherlock decided to go get some sleep. But it's not like he waited for John to go to sleep. Did he?

 

_Assuming i would confuse Angelo's takeaway with thumbs it's an interesting way to tell me how little you think of me. SH_

He's smirking a bit at the screen.

_You forgot your date shoes. SH_

Is he going on a date? Is that Sarah woman from the surgery? Why would he care anyway. Phone not buzzing, no answer. Wasn't he funny? He tried to be funny. Whatever. He doesn't care. Does he? Shut up. His brain is foggy again.

Case, case.

He needs a case. What was that with the dead dog? Ah yes, the jealous cousin and the dead mother.

 

Case, case.

 

John.

 

What? No, case. He searches through the mail, then through the emails. Did the phone buzzed?

Tap. No messages.

 

Small steps, rings clicking on the handrail. Mrs Hudson. Smell of food. She thinks he could confuse gnocchi and human thumbs too. «Sherlock, dear? I brought you something to eat. John said he was going to be late, so i thought-»

 

«Was he alone?» so he'd been at home. He just didn't bother to change clothes. So he didn't need to impress. Dress to impress he says. No date shoes. Is she someone he is comfortable with? Sarah? Sister? Business? Mycroft. He hopes it was Mycroft.

 

«Oh! No dear, he was with such a nice lady. Sarah, was it? Been quite a long time now.» she puts a little tray on the kitchen table. She notices the little faltering of his pocker face. «Oh Sherlock, why don't you just tell him already?» his head snaps up, he feel the muscles in his neck strain a bit.

 

What.

 

«What?»

 

Mrs Hudson smiles in that motherly way, her eyebrows knitting together in worry. «You know what, dear. I know i am not your mother but-»

«But you are talking nonsense just like she would! Thank you for the food, Mrs Hudson but i need to work.» he dips his head in the uninteresting clients' mail. So many love affairs, so many husbands cheating and wives cheating and everybody is cheating and he feels a bit like John is cheating too.

 

Wait, what?

 

John's not cheating. That doesn't make sense.

 

_Didn't have time to change, it was important. Mrs Hudson insisted to make you dinner anyway, but for future reference gnocchi have no fingernails on them._

 

_Just letting you know._

 

11 minutes of wait. Two messages. He's got little time to answer. Dinner out? Date. Sarah.

 

_Funny. I got the milk by the way. SH_

 

The food smells good. Is it beef? It is. Hasn't eaten in two days, John didn't force him to eat.

 

John wasn't really attentive the past two days. Didn't pay attention to Sherlock, by the way. So he's hungry. But his stomach is twisting in a not-hungry way. He did got the milk on his was back home. Wasn't John happy? But why did he care? Since when did he care about John's opinion?

Always. He always cared.

 

_Grown up, are you? Remember to put it in the fridge or it'll waste._

_Possibly far from the eyeballs._

 

Was that a joke? Is he angry? Does John think he isn't capable of doing such a stupid thing as conserving milk? He's a genius. Of course he knows milk needs to go into the fridge or it'll waste.

Except he didn't put it in the fridge right away. He sighs, puts the milk in the fridge. Dammit.

 

_Between the ears and the saliva samples seems just right. SH_

Is John eating? Should Sherlock eat? He'd eat if John was here.

 

2AM. He is not waiting. There's something wrong with the glass of the windows. There's no John crossing the street and picking the keys out of his pocket behind the glass. Or maybe it's just the dust.

 

He said he'd be late. But 2AM is very late.

 

 


	2. Red Marks.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock didn't wait for him. He did not.

 

 

7:32AM. Eyes open. Mind alert. Movements. Noises from the door. Keys fumbling with the lock. Uneasy steps. A pause mid-stairs. A groan. John?  
«John?» small whisper.

More groaning, shuffling of the coat missing the hanger and slipping on the floor. Door closing. Irregularities in the walk.  
He drapes himself in the sheets, eyes alert but quite heavy with sleep. He calls out again, louder.  
«John?»

Cups, spoons cluttering in the sink, ungraceful words escaping thin tense lips. «Shit, fuck...Oh, Sherlock! Hi, hello!» nervous.  
Why is he nervous? Hand on his thigh. Leg hurts? Not his bad one.  
«You alright, John?» flushed face, eyes flying away on random objects.

Alert. Is John hurt? Crumpled shirt. Folds on trousers in random places. Unstyled hair.

 _Oh_.

«Yeah, yeah! I'm-I'm fine. I'm great. Just- late for work! Work. I have to take a shower.» he turns his head towards the bathroom door, the collar of his shirt revealing more skin of John's neck.  
Red mark.

Oh.

Brain's foggy. Heart alerted. Alert, alert.

 

30 something and typing "sex marks" on google. For a case, of course. John's case. He'd call it "why do i have to make public the fact that i eloped with Sarah" on his stupid website. Sherlock actually enjoys John's blog. Not stupid.  
Not stupid.  
Hickeys? Why would she ever do that. Why do people do that. Why would anyone do that do John anyway.

 

«Going!» styled hair, that awfully cheap deodorant smell so familiar to his nose, bag under deep deep blue eyes.  
«You should rest, John. I need my blogger well rested.» disinterested look, play with the pages of the newspaper. Look casual.

«Yeah, but just to remind you I actually have a job. I am a doctor, people need me. I can't just skip a day.» Slightly hurried tone, he'd love to stay home. Previous night performance tired him out.

Clenching teeth, clenching fists, crumpled paper. Alert, alert. «Right.» look casual.

John waves and hurries through the door. Sherlock lifts his eyes from the words he isn't reading. «I prefer my doctor well rested too.» it's just a murmur.

And he needs him too.

 

_Ham and eggs or tuna and salad? SH_

He is going to bring John lunch. He would usually buy something in his pause, but he forgot his wallet this morning, too busy running out of the flat. So that means he had no money for lunch, nor for a taxi. So he had to walk to Bart's and is probably starving by now.

_Is this a code for murder or suicide or are you actually talking about food?_

 

 _I would never lower myself to such an idiotic form of language, John. I was in fact referring to sandwiches. I guess you need to eat. SH_  
So i can eat too because you always remind me to eat or otherwise i would go days without eating a single crumb of bread. He doesn't say it.

_Are you making them?_

He does feel a bit affronted at that. Does John think he can't make sandwiches? Because he can. He surely can. He never does, that's the thing. He's never been in need for a sandwich. Mostly because he doesn't eat a thing for days apart from tea, but also Mrs Hudson is always quick to bring a plate of something she cooked fresh and handmade. So, no need to prepare a sandwich.

_Of course not. SH_

There's a moment of silence. He can almost see the gears in John's head weighing the idea of Sherlock touching food he would put in his mouth and body. He never trusts Sherlock near food. He says he has a weird conception of hygiene. Not true, though. Sherlock is quite obsessed by personal hygiene.

4 minutes, 31 seconds.

_Tuna and salad will do. Please don't poison it._

 

He needs to stop thinking about the marks on John's body. That's it. Or the way he massaged his aching legs. Or how tired he looked.

Sex. Alert, alert.

«I'm impressed.» John's talking around a mouthful of salad, bread and tuna. In another context Sherlock would have found it disgusting.

«You do think I am incapable of making food.» John shrugs a little, small bites, eyes preceding every single one of them.  
« Salad and tuna are not a great combination with narcotics.»

John nearly chokes on his food.  
«John! I was joking, I was joking.»

Deep deep blue eyes glare at him in that way he knows he's not in trouble. It's John's way of saying "i hate you but I won't punch you in the face" which is the closest thing to an affection demonstration they share.

Not that he wants affection anyway.

 

«Sherlock.»

Alert, brain alerted, heart runs, eyes open. «John, are you hurt?» what even.

«No, just-» his eyebrows are furrowed, lips tense and tongue sticks out rapidly for a moment. «I am going out, just wanted to let you know or you'd wake up to an empty flat and would alert you brother that someone kidnapped me.»

Sleepy laugh, foggy mind. John's standing above him, watching his face and waiting for a sarcastic come back. «That happened once, John. Once.»

He closes his eyes again, lids heavy and mind dizzy. The sofa isn't even comfortable but he looks so tired. John smiles. «See you later.»  
And he's gathering his stuff for the date, Sherlock watches him deciding if he should wear the date shoes not not. He doesn't. Sherlock chest sinks a bit deeper. John is SO comfortable with Sarah.

 

Will he move out?  
Will he move in with her?  
Will they marry?  
Will they have sex?  
Sex.  
Alert. That's bad. No sex. Not for Sherlock anyway.

 

Sex with John must be okay though, For Sarah, of course.


	3. Eyeballs.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something in Sherlock's mind snaps out of the blue.

«The car outside is still warm, it's not the victim's car and the body is wet from the shower.» he starts putting his gloves back. Lestrade is staring at him with an open mouth. «Really, you can't..? Oh, Jesus. Must be so relaxing living with your brain.»

 

Eyes roll, small puff of air. Lestrade is pissed but not quite.

«So?»

 

«Either the killer is still inside hiding in this house or they left the place walking or maybe they're waiting for your slow brains to leave the scene.» he eyes the victim's wife who is currently faking an impressively credible cry. Lestrade follows his eyes. He gets it, somehow. «The wife? Really?»

 

«Check her hands and bag, husband was allergic to something, she puts it in his saop. Separate soaps, really? And separate beds too, according to the king sized bed. Only one side looks freshly done, the other one wasn't slept on. Look at his left hand, the ring is not even o the tan line of his ring finger. An hot shower would have floated his hands, the ring couldn't have slipped from its place. He took it off, didn't mean to spend the night out and was in hurry to go back home before the poor wife debunked the affair. He was sleeping in another woman's bedroom. Wife discovered, went out to buy what she used to trigger the anaphylactic shock, waited in her car for him to arrive home. Is that what couples do? Love must be so boring.» boring boring boring «I have to go.»

 

Greg gives him a weird look, then eyes the corpse. «Alright. But where's John? How can you say it was intentional poisoning? How can you even tell he was allergic?! For God's sake Sherlock you can't just- where is John? We need his medical opinion.»

 

There's a weird silence. Sherlock's eyes run from one point to another without resting, not staring at the same thing twice, not even looking at something properly. «John spent the night out. He couldn't be here with us this morning.» stomach twists in a weird way. _Alert_. «Arrest the wife.»

 

 

He starts walking towards the main door of the house, politely smiles at the victim's wife to look as casual as possible -it's not like he just spent five minutes crawling around the naked, dead body of her departed husband- and heads out. It's raining, cabs are picking up strangers on the street. Do they know there's a dead man and a murderer just at few feet distance from the safety of their homes? Ah, it's such a nice morning.

 

«Sherlock?» Lestrade, again. His voice is hammering at the back of his head. «Try not to poison John's shampoo, will ya?» a smug smile on his face. Why is he smiling.

 

Why would Sherlock poison John's shampoo.

 

What is he talking about.

Oh.

 

_Oh._

 

«Sure.» the muscles in his abdomen relax a bit. Is he supposed to react like this? Why is he relieved? Lestrade thinks John's cheating? Was he joking? Why can't Sherlock understand if he's joking?

 

Alert, brain is getting frustrated.

 

 

 

So, turns out he isn't supposed to feel relieved if someone thinks him and John are in a relationship. Internet says so. Mycroft too.

 

_Talk to Doctor Watson, brother mine. You never were one to be understood without plain and explicit explanation. MH_

 

 

_What do you mean? SH_

 

_That if you think that getting attached to John Watson is what you're going to do in the future, talking about it might be the best option for the both of you. Don't let sentiment eat your neurones, Sherlock. MH_

 

That doesn't even make sense. Sentiment can't cloud his mind, nor can literally eat neurones. His brother's humor is not even humorous.

 

_Shut up. Watch your diet. SH_

 

 

 

The eyeballs in the fridge are starting to smell like proper death. John always groans when he opens the fridge. But John does groans at almost everything in their flat so maybe it's not that bad. They're sitting on their chairs. At least they were until John decided it was time for a snack. "Snack" as in "I didn't eat at Sarah's and i am quite hungry because God knows what we did".

 

Stop. It's ridiculous. The fog is turning in small crystallised shards of ice. The shards are tickling his skull and brain.

«For f-» stops, deep sigh, puff of air out, lungs shut «Sherlock!» angry steps.

 

Alt.

 

«What the hell Sherlock? Please clean the fridge, like, now.»

 

Cold green eyes lift from the violin and work their way through the small room to find John's deep deep deep blue eyes. He lowers his gaze after half a second. John frowns. «Please?»

 

Please? _Please_. Please stop talking to me. Please stop looking at me. _Please_. «Why.»

 

«Wh-? Sherlock, it smells like shit. Please just throw out that stuff.» increasing voice tone, higher pitch. Frustration.

 

«And is it a problem?» why is he doing this. The icy shards are starting to sting his brain over and over. His skin is warming up and his right hand tighten around the fragile instrument.

 

«It is a problem, Sherlock. Normal people do not keep human parts in the fridge. I got over the normal part, but at least clean the damn fridge when they start decomposing!» he's not looking at John, but he can see behind his eyelids the tendons tensing in his neck, the small vein popping up on his left temple. He's probably gesticulating a lot too.

 

«Well it's not like we use the fridge for food, anyway.»

 

One angry step. He can imagine the soldier's hands balling into fists. A deep breath. «Just- will you clean it? Please, Sherlock. You're not 5 anymore. Clean your mess, you're not the only one to live here.»

 

That's. That's _it_. The shards stabs right into his grey matter. He can feel the blood boiling and the pressure behind his eyes skyrocketing. Nothing of it shows on the outside of his flesh shell. «Oh, am I? I don't resemble seeing you frequently in this flat these days.» is his voice composed? Steady. Yes. Maybe. Maybe not, judging from John's short intake of air. Surprise? He's taken aback.

 

«What is this even about, Sherlock?» Anger. Eyes open, pupils alert. Brows furrowed, lips tight. Shoulders tense. Fists tight. Definitely anger.

 

His own brows furrow in confusion. «Why are you angry? I'm stating the truth. You stayed more at that woman's place than here, your return home wasn't quite sure so I didn't feel the need to tidy the kitchen.»

 

The anger armour falters a little. Eyes blink rapidly three, four times. Straightens posture. Licks his lips. «My stuff is all here. I was coming back home.» feet shift a bit, not really taking a step forward but neither distancing himself. «Sherlock I was coming back home. You knew i was.»

 

 

He didn't. He sits up and walks past John and into the kitchen. Fridge open, eyeballs out. Bin open, eyeballs in. He turns to John, arms open and a petty expression playing on the tight curve of his lips.

The doctor's brows are raised, bottom lip sucked in, eyes trying to translate the detective's actions whose feet are already walking away into his bedroom. The door shuts loudly, Mrs Hudson calls out from the lower floor. The building is old, she says.

 

John is stuck in his place. What happened? What was that? He looks for new shots in the wall. None. Stabbed mail on the shelf? None. Frustrating email? Laptop shut. «Alright.»

 

Sherlock hears the steps on their way to the upper floor.

 

Damn brain. Damn fog. Damn John.

 


	4. Not a chapter!!!!!!!!!!!

Guys as some of you might have noticed, I modified the chapters. It's basically the same as before, but i wrongfully titled the first two and missed a bit of the first chapter so i just corrected it and uploaded another fresh chapter! My sincere apologies,  
Evander.


	5. Closed doors.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locked doors and ridicolous thoughts.

«Sherlock, dear. You should at least shower and eat something! » soft knocking at his door. Mrs Hudson's high pitched voice coming from the hallway.  
He's been in his bedroom, sitting on the floor, for the past twentynine hours. twentynine hours straight. He heard plates being left by his door, cups of tea slipping past a small space when Mrs Hudson felt brave enough to actually dare to open the door.

 

In front of him, they sit in all their ugly selves. Brown, sole consumed.

Consumed. Used a lot. That's what it means.

Date shoes.

 

 _Damn_ shoes.

 

Loud feet stomp in the hallway, rhythm secure and steady. The shoes against the wooden floor are as loud as the vigorous knocks at his door.  
«Sherlock for Christ's sake! I swear to god I'm gonna kick this freaking door down right now if you don't come out of this damn room. » John.

 _Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn_ STOP!

Damn John.

He sits up, picks up the shoes from the floor. Is he really going to do this? Yes.  
Maybe.

 

No.

 

He pushes them under his bed with a swift movement and then turns to open the door. «You do lost your temper quite easily to be a both a soldier and a doctor, don't you? Mrs Hudson, I'm going to take that shower you were blabbering about eben though i find slightly offending the way you suggested that I do, in fact, stink. I'd really appreciate a cup of tea when i come back, if you don't mind.» don't look at John, don't look at John.

 _Don't_.

John?  
A strong grip on his right bicep as he goes to walk past the two persons in front of him. John.  
«What the hell was that about? Time for spring cleaning in that Mind Palace of yours? » voice is thick, a bit salty. Grip loosens. Body hesitates, worry is probably making its way through the blue eyes- he won't look at them. Deep blue. Deep deep blue. Deep as water. Deep as a _well_.

What the _hell_.  
Stop, Sherlock.

«Mind Palaces do not require any type of maintenance. Also, i don't think i need to remind you how unlikelu it is for me to even approach the idea of cleaning. I can't clean up my mess, can I? »  
He heads to the bathroom. The kitchen doesn't smell. There are few plates on the clean side of the table and in the sink. Too many plates and too many forks to be used by one person. Too many meals to be meant for one.  
Did Sarah come over? Did John cook for the two of them? Who cares? Not him anyway.

Anyway.

 _Alert_.

 

Shower.  
The water is hot. Which is an extraordinarily stupid observation. Water is hot, water is wet, god is not real, beauty is a social construct. John is beautiful.

What? Alert, remove thought. Erase it.

 

Droplets of water roll down on his skin. The magic of gravity.  
The bathtub is almost full. His Mind Palace is pretty full too. There's something new in a corner of the left wing of the building. He still cannot enter the room. The door is locked. Frustration.

Water closed. He slips in the bathtub, under the water, lower part of his face under the surface. Deep water. Deep deep water.  
What is that room about? He feels something in the pit of his stomach but can't rationalise it. Is he hungry? He probably is since he didn't touch solid food for more than a day but that's not it.  
_Rationalise_.

Damn it. Think, for the love of it!

Love. Love?

_Delete it._


	6. Tea?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update. I had a couple of pretty busy days and wasn't able to write anything. Hope you like it!
> 
> Please please please leave a comment, i want and need to know what you think about my writing! Doesn't have to be a positive comment ahah i love a good creative critique.
> 
> Let me know what you think!  
> Love,  
> Evander.

 

 

So.

Past couple of days have been a ridiculous attempt to avoid John's gaze. His eyes are always busying one something too important to look at John.

 

Everybody notices. Mrs Hudson gives them strange looks, half tilted smile worrying her face. Lestrade keeps gazing between them, back and forth, trying to define WHY Sherlock thinks the floor is more important than the soldier's face and the walls behind his blond head are so damn interesting.

 

 

«You are not subtle, you know.» Molly is smiling briefly and sadly. Everyone around Sherlock seems to be doing that lately. «You look sad, when you think he can't see you.»

 

Alert. What is she talking about? What is she trying to _imply_?

«Molly, your incoherent words are laying eggs in my brain. Please do shut up.» that might has come out of his mouth a bit too harsh, she flinches slightly at the sharp consonant.

 

«I know you, Sherlock. You shouldn't hide it, it's not working anyway.»

 

alert. _Alert._

 

Does John know then? Is he angry? Is he going to try and talk to him about it? «What. Are. You. Talking. About.» fake boredom, deep sigh «Eggs are becoming maggots, please go away.» He returns to the lying corpse on the slab, examines once more the petechial bleeding and the burnt fingertips as if he needs to be more sure.

 

He's so lost, even more lost now that Molly left his side to put a body is its cell leaving him to the complete mercy of John.

Not that John is looking at him, though. He's to slabs away from him, discussing papers with Graham? Giles? Greg Lestrade.

He feels exposed. Does he look sad? Why does he look sad? _Is he sad?_

 

Alert.

 

His eyes touches John's figure for half a second and something starts to squeeze tightly his respiratory tract.

 

Not good.

 

 

 

 

«Sherlock! Wait, mate!» Lestrade.

 

Nurses stare at him weirdly. Why is everyone staring at him weirdly? What is this all about.

Maybe because Scotland Yard is running after him. Trotting after him, to be fair. Trotting like a puppy around his owner.

 

«What? We just finished, can't you live another day without me?» if he rolls his eyes, it might look like he's not actually _sad._

 

Does he look sad?

 

«Look, whatever it's going on-No! Shut up a second, as hard as it must be for you.» the policeman is holding up his index, pointing at Sherlock's face. Is he going to say he looks sad? «It's not working, this...this _thing._ You two need to cooperate. I know this is hard for you, but-»

 

«I have no idea what you're talking about. Are you all going nuts?» he starts walking again, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot.

Don't touch the cracks on the concrete, concentrate.

 

«Us all? So it's not just me, isn't it?» he's grinning wide, proud of his point being made. Jesus christ, humans.

«Not at all, this place seems to be _bursting_ with idiots!» sarcastic smile, sharp eyes, wave goodbye. «'afternoon, Lestrade!»

 

 

 

He is not sad and he is surely not afraid. What is it with people trying to guess his mood?

 

Not sad.

Not afraid.

 

«Sherlock, can you look at me when I talk to you? Please.» he can't and he won't.

 

John is standing right in front of him, both hands on the sides of the laptop, demanding attention and imposing over the detective. _Imposing_ as far as it is possible for a short injuerd soldier.

 

Which is, in this case, a lot.

 

«Nope, working.» tap the cases, pretend to work. Pretend to work so they leave you alone, it always worked with his family. He'd pretend he was doing homeworks for _hours_ but of course Mycroft knew he'd finish them in 30 minutes round. 30 minutes for a week worth of homeworks, 6 hours of pretending to be studying.

 

But John is not like the rest of his family. Like his family, not the rest.

 

John is not family.

Is he?

Alert. Fog.

 

One harsh hand shut the laptop closed right on his fingers, it takes him a few mooments before he starts feeling the burning. He lifts his head.

«What the _hell_ do you want.» he needs his hands, he needs his fingers to be healthy and safe. No serious injury, check. Red lines on his skin, no blood, check. Burning pain, check. Damn John.

 

«Oh, are we doing conversation now? Thank _god_!» the last bit is angry and acid and _loud._ It's a yell that surely got Mrs Hudson alerted.

 

«It's not like i have a choice here, you tried to crush my fingers.» his right middle one is starting to redden up a bit. A dull ache is echoing in his ears.

 

Can he play the violin in this state?

 

«What is going on with you? What's wrong with _you_? »

 

Maybe now he is a bit sad. A lot is wrong with him, Mycroft never fails to remind him. He's not actually sure if he cares or not, but it's not the main problem right now.

 

Or maybe it is.

 

Because it stings a bit, the way John is vomiting his last words on him, balling up his fists with anger. «You haven't talked to me for the whole week, you are not even looking at m-LOOK AT ME SHERLOCK!»

Oh. That's his soldier voice.

 

 

It's like being at school all over again, Mrs Chambers would yell at him in front of the whole class trying to get Sherlock to look up at her. Results? Never.

 

 

John watches as his friend shrinks in size under his sudden mood swing. He never does that. It's not a Sherlock thing to do, being...shaken by people. He rarely has _human_ reactions.

 

This is the first time John's brain screams red in alert.

 

«Hey, look it's just...you've been weird all week.»

 

 

Weird. Wrong. How many _nice_ things to say to your _friends._

«I have not. I now would really appreciate if you'd leave me to my work.» and he really tries to lift the laptop open again, but John's hands are pushing down hard enough to probably ruin the screen.

 

«It's not _your_ work, it's been _ours_ for quite a bit! That's what I am talking about!»

 

Eyes fixed on the cuffs of his shirt, studying the simple path of the cotton thread drawing the delicate seams. Alert.

 

Alert.

 

Pause.

 

«So? Care to tell me what's going on?»

John is lying on his forearms, elbows steady on the desk. Sherlock can feel his stare burning holes in his scalp.

 

Can he see the fog? Can he see the damage in his brain? Does he know what's going on in his Palace?

 

«Sherlock, it's becoming a bit scary now. Will you look at me? Did you take anything?» trained hands make their way to his left wrist, skilled fingers press on his pulse.

 

So that's what John thinks of him? A junkie, nothing else?

 

Does he talk about him? Does he talk to Sarah about his use?

 

«Sherlock, don't do this now. Stay here, close the damn Palace of yours.»

 

«Stop talking like I'm an idiot, I am here. I can hear you. I always hear you.»

 

and that's when John's inner bell starts ringing. Sherlock can sense it in the air, the short and sudden intake of air the doctor forces through his lips and into his lungs. It stays there few seconds and then comes out of his nose with frutration.

 

Why is John so angry?

 

He always hear John, even when he's in his Mind Palace. It sounds a bit like speakers are in every corner of the building, trasmitting loudly every word the man says. It's like his brain _wants him_ to hear John, always. Because when John is not with him on a case, or simply out with the woman, Sherlock can hear his voice in his head forming thoughts and formulating ideas.

 

«Then answer me, what is all of this about?» touch is still steady on his pulse, voice a little softer now.

 

Yes, what is this about? God knows.

How can he explain the way his brain turns into a swarm of wasps everytime he smells Sarah's parfume on his clothes? There's no rational explanation foor that.

 

Damn John. Damn brain. Damn door.

 

«I don't know. Just- » index and thumb pinch the bridge of his nose, the pressure behind his eyes is getting unsustainable. «Can you give me space? I need air!»

 

Brows raised, mouth surprided. Sherlock hands rips away from his, hides behind the wooden desk and forms a fist.

It's holding the handle of _the_ locked room. There's a small windows on the door now, glass dirty with dust he can't clean. He can't look inside. It's driving him crazy.

 

«Alright! Here, have your space. I'm going in my room.» there's a hint of _fuck you_ lingering in his too kind words.

 

Fists tight, steps slow enough to give Sherlock time to clinch.

 

What is this? Is it useful? Is it helpful? Does it need it in his life?

No, but he can't oust the feeling.

Stings, burns, claws at his ribcage. What the hell is this.

 

«I'm staying at Sarah's tonight.»

 

Aaaaand here it is.

 

«N-no! Wait we need- I need your...your help! With the case. It's important.» what? He can't even find the right paper in all the mails resting messily on the desk. «It's about a...very important thing. Mycroft asked.»

 

Huffs, small annoyed laugh. He knows. «No, it's not. He wouldn't send you a _mail_ for his kind of cases.» shakes his head, hands on hips, eyes on feet.

 

He is not angry. He looks defeated, a bit...sad?

 

«Look, if you wan-need me to stay you just need to tell. Just stop taking the piss, it's becoming tiring and I have no energy for your games.»

 

«It's not a game! It's a case. » his pocker face sucks, he reads it in John's incredolous eyes.

 

«Right...» chair's legs grinds against the floor, he sits. «Listen, I just want to get this off my chest, »

 

alert, shut down.

 

«it's been haunting me for days and i need to ask it, alright? Just,»

 

the only thing he feels distinclty right now is his won heartbeat bursting in his ears. His stomach is tight. Legs feel like they need to start running.

Feel.

Feel.

 

 

Feel.

« don't laugh at me when i ask. If I am wrong, just tell me and I'll leave you to your work.»

 

eyes lifted, take the image in. John's hands are up in the air, his walls are all down and so is his sureness. Breathe!

 

Alert! He hears the doors shutting down, hallways preparing to the incoming data. He'll need another isolation cell, padded and soundproof.

 

«Is there any chance that you...uhm-that you like»

 

alert! He can't close the speakers, John's voice in echoing in the empty building.

Blinks quickly, one two three four five six seven times.

This is going to be bad. Bad bad bad. Count, count the dishes Mrs Hudson is washing downstairs. Count the many shades of red of the carpet. Count the smells from the kitchen. Find ten objects of many uses all standing in the same spot of the flat. Single out the mud stains on the shoes left by the door.

One

two

three

four

five

six

seven

 

eight

 

 

nine

 

 

«that you might like Sarah?»

 

 

what.

 

«Because you can tell me if-if it makes you uncomfortable I could-I could...I don't know but you know... »

the rambling goes on for a bit. The speaker are muffled by a thick layer of a gooey matter, fog that lays and melt on the walls and lights and windows and _what?_

Is he safe? What's going on? Mycroft is staring at him with a lopsided grin, displeasure showing in his cold cold eyes. «Sherlock, what did we say about emotions? They get you _messy._ »

 

He used to be a messy kid until he suddendly was not. It got worse and worse and lines and schemes and patterns and colours and emotions just mess things up! Anger doesn't goo with red, sadness doesn't match with blue! It doesn't it doesn't _it doesn't!_

 

 

«Sherlock? Are you alright?»

 

 

abort mission,abort mission. The alarm sirens go silent in his head. The fog dissipates. The walls are made of sand and they are collapsing over him.

 

John is completely oblivious. «Is that it?»

 

long pause, deep silence. Sand is filling up his body, legs heavy and lungs full. He needs to shut down _right now._

Breathe. Forget. Erase the conversation. Erase emotional context. Breathe out.

 

 

«How the _hell_ am I supposed to answer that? Have you gone mad, John?» forced smiled, probably a bit creepy.

 

 

Sarah? What the hell.

 

«Tea?»

 


	7. Jumper.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doors are meant to be opened but so are hearts and Sherlock is not quite sure he's ready for that.  
> John begins to understand. Words are left unspoken once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. Sad events kept me away from writing and I hope I'll be able to update more frequently. Please leave comments to let me know your opinion on this story!
> 
> Love,  
> Evander.

 

 

«I think he likes Sarah.»

That's what makes Lestrade spit his morning coffee on the concrete of a crime scene,  
John Watson being the most oblivious man on planet heart, standing next to the most outraged detective of London. «He what? Have you gone mad, mate?»

John eyes carefully Sherlock standing few metres from the two of them, crouching over the dead body of a man, hands flying swiftly over damp clothes and bloody cuts.

«I asked him! Look i know it might sound strange but- »

«It doesn't sound strange, it's bloody stupid! Are you quite stupid?» that makes the soldier lift an eyebrow, chin tilts a little.

«Is this supposed to mean you know something I don't or is it just an observation?»

Lestrade looks baffled at him, lips parted and head tilted forward. When he sees John is not joking, he seems to get a grip on himself. «'sorry man, but I don't even think Sherlock likes- » he gesticulates eloquently, hands waving and eyes looking for agreement in John's.

«Sarah? She's nice, I see why he would get a crush on her, I mean i have a crush on her too so it's not lik- »

« _Women_ , John. I meant women. Not Sarah. Not Sally, nor Molly. Just, _women_.»

John's mouth still stands agape, his gaze is running around as if he's scanning through possible answers. «Oh.»

Sherlock's eyes flicker on their direction, brows knitted together. He knows they are talking about him. Lestrade's face says it all. John looks like he just discovered the heart is not flat.

What are they talking about? Why are they even talking? Does he look sad? He tries to smile convincingly at them.

John's eyes dart away quickly as if Sherlock's been threatening him with pepper spray.

What?

John turns and gives him his back, and Lestrade's face looks like he's apologising to Sherlock. In some way. For some reason.

_What are they talking about?_

Alert, this is not good. Not good at all.

«Lestrade! You might want to give a look at this man's clothes before I tell you why he wasn't killed in this exact spot.»

John's shoulders seem blocked in the middle of a deep breath. Straight posture, tight fists, head held up in his military trained way. He bets he is pursing his lips right now.

 

 

«Sherlock.»

Plate full, food untouched. Glass empty but used. Once? Twice. He needed liquid courage.  
«Aren't you hungry, John?» he doesn't look at him, he traced a safety line for his eyes, just about above John's lips so that he can see his reactions without having to deal with John's gaze.

The doctor lets out a low chuckle, the annoyed one. What's going on? Is he angry? No, his hands are not balled up, they are resting in front of him, just before the full plate, pressed together.

He is pursing his lips.

«Sherlock. Are you gay?»

_Alt_. Fork stops mid air. The last bite he took is resting in the back of his mouth, not quite ready to be swallowed. «Is this the result of your nice little chat with Lestrade? I am surprised.»

Restart muscles, chew the food. One, two, three times. Swallow.

Silence is thick but not heavy.

«So...is that a yes or-?»

Eyeroll, the fork hits the plate and lets out a loud clink. «Is this important? Why is it important? I've already told you that I am not looking for any kind o- »

«Oh, shut up with the smart talking! Just answer me, will you? Honestly Sherlock, I am your friend. You can tell me.» John's voice cuts him off, he licks his lips once out of anxiety.

«I could tell you, but this is not about trusting. This is about your need to satisfy your curiosity.» stay composed. Alert. His eyes must not leave the table, his facial muscles must remain impassible.

John's face though. It's turning of a deep red, his lips trembling slightly. Anger? Embarassment?

It might be embarassment given the fact that he just discovered John's interest for his sexuality, which might imply that he has some kind of-

BANG of a fist against the table.

 

So,

definitely anger.

 

«You can't stop being a smartass for a moment, can you?!»

«Not really, no.»

«Are you gay?»

«What's the matter with you tonight?»

«What's yours?» it's almost a yell. John is standing up, pushing the chair distant from the table and grabbing its edge with shaky hands and white knuckles.

Pause.

Deep sigh, eyes closed, fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. «Sorry, I am...sorry.» John remembers last time he shouted and the way Sherlock flinched and shut down. «Look, don't worry. I just wanted to know, because you're my friend and I thought you liked my girlfriend and Lestrade- »

Alert. Sherlock's eyes snap on John's face. This is not okay, this feels wrong.  
John looks startled by the sudden eye contact.

«What did he tell you.» he will not let emotions take over him. He will control himself.

_Breathe. Stay still. Focus._

«He said you couldn't possibily have a crush on her.» careful, careful words. So gentle, his John. «Because you are not interested in her. Or in Molly. Or Sally. Or any other woman on the planet.»

oh.

«Oh.» relax. Breathe.

«So,» Sherlock's eyes leave John's, the direct contact agonizingly wearisome. «Is it true? I am not judging you. It's fine.»

«I know it's fine.» he knows. He already told him once, at Angelo's. They talked. Why is this necessary? This feels so bad, like a stomach ache. It's nagging, pesky and definitely irritating.

«You are, then.» suddenly the ticking of John's watch is too loud. And the food too scented. And the air too thin.

_Alert_ , losing control. He can't afford losing control now. «No point in denying it.»

John's smile is too chary, too controlled. «You don't need to.»

This conversation is empty. This is tirying. He needs to recollect and elaborate his thoguhts because his brain is storming. His mind is overloaded with informations and odours and noises and

he can't.

_Focus_.

His Mind Palace is messy. There are papers of documents resting messily on the floor on the hallway. The windows' glass looks clouded, smoked, too thick for light to pass through. And if he can't trust in mind's eyes, how can he be aware of what's happening?

«John, I need you to understand that I don't need any kind of romantic entanglement and as I have already told you once, I consider myself married to my work and I can't let distractions to interfere with my thought process.» he was clear, right? This should do.

He wants to run away. His hands are trembling.

«Sherlock, it's all fine. Calm down.» he's using his doctor voice, soft and delicate as if he's telling a patient they have a rare disease.

Sherlock knows the tone too well, memories of childhood full of whispered diagnosis exchanged between Mummy and the doctors, lips moving carefully while Mycroft covered his ears with both of his hands, holding his little brother close to his chest while matching his back and forth rocking. «You don't need labels, little brother.» it's what he said to him during the bad moments.

«I know you don't, Sherlock. It's not what I meant. » john. John? He talked his memories out loud.

Alert. He's losing control! He's losing focus. He needs control.

«I'm sorry I upset you, let's just have a cuppa yeah? We are fine.»

Eyes shut, seven seconds to get a grip on his running train of thoughts.

One, _John is getting the kettle_.

Two, _the water is running._

Three, _the door is still locked._

Four, _John is putting the kettle on._

Five, _the window's glass is clean and transparent, he still can see nothing._

«Sherlock?»

Six, _he can forces the door knob a little and it seems to give in a bit._

«Hey, you here? You zooned out.» fingers are running in front of his face, just long shadows disturbing his concentration. He shuts his eyes harder.

Seven, _the door seems to crack open and he can feel the thick metal mechanics giving in inside. He can sense the warmth of a lamp and the smell of dust and cigarettes and he could push harder and see-_

«Sherlock!»

hands are shaking him roughly and his eyes are forced open by the shock.  
No no no no no no no!

«I WAS ALMOST THERE!» his own voice echoes in his head. John is looking at him, hands raised. He looks scared. Did he scare John?

Sherlock is staring at him with wild eyes, breath laboured and goosebumps on the skin of his forearms. What's going on?

Sherlock's brain is shouting. He was almost there, he could see what's behind the closed door. He was almost there!

«Okay uhm, Sherlock? You are making no sense, calm down. Please.»

John is wearing a new jumper. The cloth looks like it feels awful. Rough. His fingertips itch.

New jumper? «Why a new jumper?» he doesn't like new. What's going on? He can feel his brain answering but he can't catch up.

Stupid, stupid!

«I ju-I saw it and i bought it, what's the big deal? Are you okay, Sherlock?» hand reaches out.

_Flinch away._

«Don't touch me.» his own clothes are starting to hurt.

He can't go back in the Palace. His eyes are shut, so tight he can't even percieve the shadows of John moving. So tight his eyebrows hurt, his temples hurt, his fingers contracting so hard they hurt too.

He can't picture it. He can't enter it. «I was almost there you don't understand I wa-»

he loses it.

He loses it in the way his hands reach on his hair to get handful of dark locks. He loses it in the way his wild eyes start running around the room stopping on nothing and taking everything in.

Alert, alert.

He can't stop this, he can't overcome this. He need to hide.

Hide, hide, hide.

Hide like when he was 13 and his classmates were teasing him over his shaking leg and flapping hand.

Hide like he did when he was 25 and the last fix hit too hard and too soon and he had to crawl in a black wet corner before Mycroft could get to him and help.

Feet are moving and he can't feel the ground beneath them.

John is talking loud.  
Words words words.

«Sherlock, please you need to s-STOP! Mrs Hudson!» john is standing on the way to the stairs, afraid Sherlock might decide to go outside in this state.

He would never go out. Not now. Not after. Too many stimuli. Focus, focus!  
Where is his room? He needs to open the door, _how do you open a door?_ His hands are furiously shaking in the air, raising to cover his mouth and nose and block whatever is bothering his olfaction.

Heels on cracking steps, Mrs Hudson coming upstairs. «John, dear? What's going on?» consonant so loud they feels like chainsaw and Sherlock wants to cry out.  
Pain pain pain.

They never understood how much pain it brings him. It hurts, it stings his skin and his clothes are covered in pins and he can't get rid of them. Mycroft always held him tight and crushed his bones to the very core of them and his body felt like made of ash.

Don't touch don't touch.

John's wearing a new jumper. Why is that?

He need to regain focus and ability or it will get worse.

Alert, concentrate.

New jumper, raw fabric. Not his style, the colours clearly don't celebrate his complexion or his hair so _WHY_.

It doesn't suit John.

«Why the jumper, John? WHY THE JUMPER? ANSWER!» he is pacing like a maniac, hair wild and eyes wet and hungry.

Hungry for details, hungry for distractions.  
But this can't work, can it? Because Mrs Hudson is clinging on John's arm as if she could fall anytime soon and she breathes too loudly and the fog is clouding his brain and eyes and-

«Sarah bought it for me! What's wrong? Is it the problem?» confusion. John is confused, but irritation lingers in his questions.

Sarah.

That's why it is so off.  
That's why it looks awful on him.

Pause.

Breathe.

The fog dissipates.

«Take it off.» he points his index finger at the ugly pale jumper. «Take it off, it's awful.»

John is staring at him in a weird way. «So the problem is my jumper.»

Breathe.

John is an idiot. «Of course not, but it's still horrible. It's distracting and your dear intended made sure to put her mawkish parfume on it one- no, _two_ times! It's awful.»

«What th-Are you serious?» he doesn't wait for Sherlock's answer, his ice cold eyes already setting him on fire with hatred. «Alright! God help me, you're unreal.»

He is taking it off, but the tingling sensation won't leave Sherlock's brain.

The smell lingers in the air, his body is faster than his mind reaching for the window's handle and opening it wide open. The wind makes its way in the flat, moving papers and curtains and air and that _smell_ away. Muscles realx, the corners of his mouth lift up slightly, his mind is clear.

John is looking at him, deep deep blue eyes burning in Sherlock's scalp and taking in the sudden change of mood. The detective looks younger, childish smile playing on his lips and fingers moving swiftly in the air, low and quietly as if Sherlock is trying to hide it, tapping one the invisible keys of a piano.

He looks somehow beautiful, in the most innocent way; in a sad way, because his skin is pale and looks thin and worn out and a small hint of his previous state is visible in his slightly trembling body.

He can't push him.

«I am not going to tell you how cold it is outside, as i fear you might not give a fuck. I am going to make some tea, if you want some feel free to ask.» and he's turning back and into the kitchen, jumper clutched in one hand.

What happened? John was so calm. What is he thinking? He did expect John to burst out of the room, stomping loudly. But he is just making tea.

His anger is not coming out. His posture is calm and relaxed. His actions natural and quiet. «John.»

_Stop. Breathe._

John turns to him, careful eyes searching for emotions. Does he look sad? Do i look sad? Does John look sad?

The soldier's thin lips are tight and curved in a – coudl be an awkward one- smile.  
No, not awkward. Is understanding and quandary, his medical experience quivering under the weight of what he witnessed.

Is he losing him? Did he scare John?

Alert.

_You're losing him, he's scared._

 

«I am sorry for my behaviour, I apologise.»


End file.
